The Empty Room Such a weight, these empty arms. Your anaemic hands like limp birds. Women dressed like white moths flap in and out saying nothing. The insidious sweetness of those flowers near your bed. Someone's swept the life into the corners of this room again. I traipse mud in on my boots; (I buried that old stray cat today) Small things. I bring you small things. I breathe to scale. I want to laugh for both of us. I help you dress in orange silk; It reminds us of swimming naked amongst the flowers we threw in the ocean. I want to shout the white out. I feed you ruby grapefruit. Curl beside you while you sleep. We are half our size in this tiny room, stunted accomplices giggling exclusions. I disorder the books. leave some coffee stains on the paperwork. So much paper. I sweep your hair up into a mad nest, I look into your honest eyes, I kiss your bitten nails, I keep my words inside a smile. Tomorrow I'm bringing in; those loud seventies curtains; some Soft Cell and speakers. Just so I can hear you say; 'Fuck 'em' ©Amanda Joy